


And It Was All Fine

by itchyfingers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Post Reichenbach, and some kissing, and some punching to the face, it has a swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itchyfingers/pseuds/itchyfingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Sherlock shows up on John's door three years after faking his death</p>
            </blockquote>





	And It Was All Fine

John was only slightly awake when he rolled over in bed, searching for his husband’s long frame. When Sherlock had come back, after three bitter years of believing him to be dead, the first thing John had done was punch him. Square in the jaw. He’d actually knocked him down with the force of the blow. John had rained blows upon him, cursing Sherlock for letting him believe in his demise, for not letting John help him. 

Mostly, for not trusting him to protect him.

John had had three long years to realize that the last part was the biggest betrayal. Not just that Sherlock hadn’t let him help, but that Sherlock hadn’t trusted him. John was a soldier at heart, even more than a doctor. That Sherlock had doubted him had destroyed him.

Three years of knowing that the person that he loved the most didn’t trust him. It ate at his soul. 

And then Sherlock had come back. John had spent the last three months thinking he was going insane, getting little glimpses out of the corner of his eye, the familiar line of a throat, the stride of a man in a long coat, even once hearing a familiar voice. All little things that added up to nothing, unless part of you still believed that, even after all this time, a miracle was possible for the man who could do anything.

And then, the knock on the door. A tall, lean man stood there. Ginger hair, a week’s stubble, black jeans, a scarf, that familiar voice that still haunted his dreams. “I remembered to pick up the milk.” John’s blow sent the milk to the floor as well as Sherlock, and John’s fury and betrayal coursed through him and onto Sherlock’s body until John collapsed, sobbing on top of his friend.

Sherlock just held John as he cried. Long arms wrapped around the shorter man and held him as his chest shook with the force of his emotions. Finally the tears calmed, and John slowly separated himself from Sherlock’s arms. He looked at Sherlock with bleary eyes and suddenly realized the amount of damage he had done to Sherlock’s face. A split lip, a gash above the brow that was dripping blood down Sherlock’s cheek, a cut on the cheek itself adding to the crimson stains.

“You fucking bastard, now I’m going to have to patch you up.” John went and got the medical kit from the kitchen and told Sherlock to take a chair at the table. Sherlock, who still hadn’t spoken since he had delivered the milk, quietly did what John told him to. John pulled up a chair opposite him and set to work with a hot wet towel wiping the blood from his best friend’s face. Sherlock watched him silently, only flinching slightly from the touch on sore flesh.

“You’re buying the milk for the rest of your life, you know that, right?” John said, as he applied ointment to the cut over Sherlock’s brow. Sherlock simply nodded.

“And if you ever die again, I will storm the gates of Hell to bring you back.” Sherlock nodded again, his eyes fixed on John’s face, who was doing his best not to make eye contact.

“And if you ever, ever don’t let me protect me in the future, I will...” his voice trailed off. He licked his lips as he tried to think of something suitably horrific. He finished cleaning the blood off of Sherlock’s lip. And then he leaned forward and kissed him. This wasn’t a tentative first kiss. This was an act of ownership. John slipped his hand into Sherlock’s ginger curls, fisting and tugging gently. His lips were firm on Sherlock’s, and his tongue slipped along the seam of the man’s full lips. There was the softest of sighs as the lips parted slightly, and John plunged his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, asserting his claim here as well. Sherlock melted into the embrace, knowing that this was what John needed, and what he desperately wanted. Sherlock’s hands slowly stroked up John’s chest, feeling the hard planes of his chest under his shirt. John bit down on Sherlock’s sore lip, drawing a sound of mixed pleasure and pain from the man, but then suckled it softly, flicking his tongue against it, the faint taste of iron in his mouth. John rested his other hand on Sherlock’s thigh and leaned in towards the man. He pulled at his curls, pulling Sherlock’s head back, exposing the throat. John watched the Adam’s apple bob up and down as Sherlock swallowed, and then John bent his head and nipped at his throat. His lips were soft and wet as they explored the expanse of pale flesh. He heard Sherlock whimper as he flicked his tongue into the hollow at the base of the man’s throat.

With a final nip, he sat back. “Your pupils are dilated and your pulse is elevated. What can we deduce from this, Sherlock?” John said, and steepled his hands under his chin.

A wry grin tugged at one corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “That I’m sexually attracted to you, John.”

“Right. And do you know what happens if you don’t let me keep you safe in the future?”

“What, John?”

“I’ll never kiss you again.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Sherlock?”

“Of course.”

“You can’t do this to me again.”

“I know.”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“I know.”

That had been nearly two years ago. It hadn’t always been easy. But living with Sherlock had never been easy, even when they weren’t lovers as well as best friends. But Sherlock remembered to buy the milk. And that was something.

John got out of bed to go look for his husband. His thumb played against the wedding ring Sherlock had given him. Sherlock proposing had been a huge surprise to John, but Sherlock had explained that he knew how much John had thought a wedding and a family were going to be part of his future, and Sherlock wanted to give him that. And he had. 

John found Sherlock in the nursery. Both of the babies were sound asleep in the crib, but Sherlock was standing over them, keeping guard. Watching Sherlock become a parent had been a joy for John. He was still as prickly and recalcitrant and stubborn as ever, but the little kindnesses of which John had been the sole recipient previously now were showered over Hamish and Molly as well.

John slipped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and rested his head on the taller man’s shoulder. “How long have you been standing here?”

“What time is it?”

John smiled. “They’re perfectly safe.”

“How can you be so sure?” This had been Sherlock’s biggest worry about having children; whether or not he would be able to keep them safe, keep them from being targets as John had been.

“One of their fathers is the world’s smartest consulting detective. The other is a sniper and a doctor. Little Hamish Gregory has one of the top inspectors at Scotland Yard keeping watch over his namesake. Molly’s uncle is the British government. These two children won’t be able to get away with anything, and no one would dare raise a finger against them.” It was a quietly reassuring mantra, one John had repeated to Sherlock multiple times.

The two men looked down at the sleeping figures, one tiny head crowned with black curls, the other with fine gold fuzz. Sherlock had quickly noticed that they slept better when in the same crib, and so here they were, both swaddled with one hand out, touching the other. Of course, sometimes that ended up with one of them punching the other, as both infants still didn’t have complete control of their arms. John just assumed this was what they could look forward to for the next eighteen years.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“For what?”

“For Hamish and Molly.”

“I didn’t do much of that work. You should thank Auntie Molly instead.”

That had been a weird discussion. John had been furious when he had found out about Molly’s role in Sherlock’s faked suicide. Not so much that she had been called on to help, where he hadn’t, but that she had kept it a secret from him the whole time as well. All had been forgiven when she had volunteered to be their egg donor and surrogate. Molly had moved on with her life while Sherlock was away, and had fallen for an older man who already had children from a previous marriage. While he didn’t want any more children, Molly had wanted to go through the experience herself. Her husband, while thinking it slightly odd, had supported her decision.

“That reminds me, she’ll be dropping off more breastmilk in the morning,” John murmured. That had been something all three of them had thought was important. These children weren’t being raised with parenting books, they were being raised with peer-reviewed journals. And with love. Sherlock took a deep breath. His own family had been beyond dysfunctional growing up. But here he was, in a family that looked nothing like what he ever would have imagined six years ago. He had a family. John, and the babies, and Molly and Lestrade as aunt and uncle and Mrs. Hudson as honorary grandmother. Even Mycroft had softened a little bit around the edges when the babies were born. Until Molly had spit up on his tie, that is. But here he was with a family. Sentiment may be a chemical defect, but it was one he was learning to live with. And it was all fine.


End file.
